Lovelier than Love
by StarSpray
Summary: Not long come from Mandos, Minyelmë is visiting Tirion with her sister, and meets Lalwen for the first time.


_Written for the June 2019 Pride Month challenge at the Silmarillion Writers' Guild, for the poem prompt "Storm," by Wilfred Owen, from which the title comes._

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"What was it like in Mandos?" That was what Minyelmë heard most often, in her first few months back in the world—even when the question was not spoken aloud, it was clear that it wanted answered. Mostly she didn't mind; it was natural, she thought, to be curious about where the elves went who were killed. And anyway, it wasn't as though—as her sister Lúnamírë had feared at first—that the question conjured unpleasant memories. In fact, she didn't remember very much from the Halls of Mandos. When she tried it was like trying to grasp at a dream upon waking, even as you forgot it.

Once or twice someone older and either tactlessly curious or nervously concerned would venture to ask how she had come to Mandos in the first place. What they really meant was had she been killed outright, or had she been _taken?_ The second option was by far the most terrifying. Death was easily understood. Death, one could come back from. But no one knew what had happened to those who had been taken by the Dark Rider or his servants in those days before Oromë had come, and before the Valar had called the Elves to Valinor. It was why Elwë's disappearance had so troubled the Lindar, and why so many had refused to leave without him—for they had thought they'd left behind that kind of tragedy.

Minyelmë had been killed; she had been on a hunt, and had been careless, and a creature that the Eldar now called an orc had crept up on her; it was an unpleasant memory, but not a painful one—that was the purpose of Mandos, after all. But her younger sister Neunë had been taken, just vanished one day without a trace, and she did not remember seeing her in Mandos. And that memory Mandos had not softened.

She'd had an unfortunate encounter with such a tactless person just before arriving in Tirion for the second time. The first had been a brief stop on her way with Lúnamírë to Alqualondë, where their Uncle Olwë and Aunt Lalindil dwelled with the rest of their people. They had spent a wonderful long time there, as Minyelmë learned to sail and re-learned to swim, and went diving for pearls with her cousins and built glittering rainbow sandcastles on the beaches beneath the stars. It had left a sour taste in her mouth, and as she dressed for a banquet (a grand affair always in Tirion, and even grander with Queen Lúnamírë visiting) and allowed her hair to be piled on top of her head and stuck with gold and glittering ornaments, she wished she were back on the beaches of Alqualondë where no one cared if she was salt- and sand-crusted or if her hair was all in a tangle.

Well, she'd go exploring in the lower city the next day, where all of the forges and workshops were. She could get as dirty and sooty as she wanted there, and learn something in the process, and then she'd feel much better.

As they made their way down to the great banquet hall, with its vaulted ceilings and bright banners and glittering lamps, Lúnamírë slipped her arm through Minyelmë's. "You look very nice," she said.

"I'm not sure I like these fine gowns very much," said Minyelmë. "They aren't at all practical."

Her sister laughed. "They aren't meant to be! And it isn't that hard to move in them, or run or dance."

Minyelmë thought of the wild dances, with more leaping and twirling than anything, that they had danced around the fires at home, some of which were still performed at festivals in Alqualondë. "Dancing!" she exclaimed. Lúnamírë just laughed.

The banquet was as grand as promised, with sparkling crystal goblets and sweet wines. Minyelmë had already learned what happened when she drank too much, and only took small sips of hers. The food was delicious and sometimes almost too beautiful to consider eating.

She sat between Lúnamírë and Ingwion at the high table; on Lúnamírë's other side sat Indis. There was no one across from Minyelmë, for their table was on a dais and overlooked the entire hall. With Lúnamírë occupied with whatever it was queens spoke of among themselves, Minyelmë turned most of her attention to the food, and the rest of it to Ingwion, who sat on her other side.

Once everyone had eaten their fill, there was a flurry of activity and laughter as the tables were moved out of the way and the musicians struck up a more lively tune. "Now for the dancing," Lúnamírë said to Minyelmë, before she was swept away by Finwë to take their place on the dance floor. Indis went as well, to dance with a tall elf with dark hair who could well have been Finwë's twin, except he was slightly taller and of a slightly thinner build.

Beside Minyelmë, Ingwion picked up a honey-glazed pastry from a tray in front of their plates and said, "That's Prince Nolofinwë dancing with Aunt Indis. He's their oldest son."

"I thought Fëanáro was the oldest," Minyelmë said.

Ingwion grimaced briefly. He was nearly out of adolescence, but retained a little bit of that gawkiness that came with being nearly all elbows and knees and too-long limbs for several years. "Fëanáro is Finwë's oldest son," he said, speaking in a low voice as a servant passed behind them with a carafe. "His mother was Míriel—"

"_Oh_, of course. I'm sorry, I forgot."

"It's all right. And there's Princess Findis," Ingwion gestured with his pastry in between bites. Findis was not dancing, but standing with a cluster of other ladies. She looked as much like Indis as Nolofinwë looked like Finwë; she wore a gown of deep green, and her hair was bound up in a net of gold set with emeralds that winked in the lamplight whenever she turned her head. "I don't see Princess Lalwen, but she's out there dancing, I'm sure. And then there's Arafinwë, but I saw him slip out when they started moving the tables. He hates dancing. Oh, there's Prince Fëanáro."

Fëanáro was easy to see, even in the midst of a crowd. Minyelmë had met him briefly on their arrival in Tirion. He had been distracted by some idea that had just come to him, and Minyelmë had come away feeling faintly relieved. He gave the impression of a fire burning hotly just beneath his skin, and whether it erupted in wrath or in joy you had best take care lest you be singed. His smile had been brief and distracted, but even so it had been surprising, sudden as lightning and nearly as bright. Now he was dancing with a tall woman with red-brown hair that fell in loose curls down her back, held out of her face by a simple circlet. Her gown was sleeveless, revealing freckled and muscled arms.

"That is Lady Nerdanel, Fëanáro's wife," said Ingwion. "Their son Maitimo is around somewhere; you'll spot him by his red hair." The music changed to something a bit slower and more stately. "Would you like to dance, Aunt Minyelmë?" he asked.

"I don't know the steps."

"This dance is easy. I'll teach you."

It was easy, and also slow and, not nearly as fun as dancing was supposed to be. But she couldn't keep up with the other dances, not in this fine dress with all its layers and embroidery and ornaments, and so she pushed Ingwion away to find another partner while she found a place out of the way to stand and watch. She didn't mind—it was like watching butterflies or birds in flight as the dancers twirled around the floor. The hall was filled with talk and laughter that threaded through the music, and occasional bursts of singing, by one or by many. And it wasn't only Elves in attendance. Ainur walked among them, Maiar clad in living flowers or shimmering like starlight, laughing and dancing alongside the elves.

"I haven't seen you here before. You must be Lady Minyelmë," said a voice suddenly at Minyelmë's side. She turned to find another lady standing there. She was clad in forget-me-not blue, with stars and feathers embroidered in a silver splash across her skirts. Her hair was black as a raven's wing, and unbound and unadorned, falling in loose waves over her shoulders.

"I am," said Minyelmë, heart in her throat.

The lady smiled, and if Fëanáro's smile was like glimpsing lightning, hers was like being struck. Minyelmë was unable to breathe for a moment, and nearly missed the lady's name when she introduced herself: she was Lalwen, the daughter of Finwë and Indis that Ingwion had been unable to point out before.

"Why are you not dancing?" Lalwen asked.

"I'm afraid I would trip and ruin my gown, and probably knock someone else over as well," said Minyelmë, somehow finding a light and careless tone within herself. She looked away, back out to the dance floor; otherwise she would likely forget what she was saying and fall to staring at Lalwen, for she was the loveliest creature Minyelmë had ever seen, even in this marvelous place. "And it would probably be someone important," she added. "And that would be terribly embarrassing." Lalwen, as befitted her name, laughed, and it was like the ringing of bells at Mingling.

"I think you are too hard on yourself," Lalwen said. "The dances are not so hard."

"It isn't the dancing, it's dancing in these skirts." Minyelmë smoothed the front of them. She did love the feel of the silk beneath her fingers. "We never had clothing like this at home."

"At home?" Lalwen tilted her head curiously, a lock of hair falling into her eyes. Then, "Oh, of course. You mean Cuiviénen." Minyelmë nodded. "Do you miss it? I mean—do you think you would have left on the Journey, if you had the chance?"

"I do miss it. But I would have left, yes. My whole family did. But I think I would have remained with my parents when Elwë disappeared." Lúnamírë had told her all about that sundering; it was still a painful thing for the Lindar, and rarely spoken of.

"Will you tell me about it? My parents talk of it sometimes, but I'm sure they are very careful to make it clear that it was a good thing to have left, and I think that colors the stories more than it should."

Minyelmë dared a look at her face again, and smiled. "I would like that," she said.

Lalwen held out her hand. "This isn't a good place for storytelling," she said, "but there is a garden with a willow tree where we can go sit a while."

"That sounds lovely." Minyelmë slipped her hand into Lalwen's. It was warm and smooth.

In the end, they sat talking together until Telperion's light waned and the Mingling approached, not only about Cuiviénen, but about Tirion and Valmar and Lórien, and about trees and flowers and butterflies, and dancing, and many other things besides. Much of the time was spent laughing, for Lalwen lived up to her name and laughed at everything, not only when it was amusing but just for sheer happiness, and her laughter was contagious. By the time Telperion's light began to wane Minyelmë's ribs ached from mirth. She was pleasantly tired, but instead of going to bed Lalwen insisted that she climb one of the many tall towers of the palace.

They reached the top as the Mingling began. "This is the best view in the city," said Lalwen. Her eyes sparkled in the Light, which caught also in her hair and on her face so that she shone, radiant as a queen among the Maiar.

The whole world shone, all the colors illuminated and deepened—the greens of the forests and the fields, the golds of the wheat, the jewel-tones of the flowers. Minyelmë hardly noticed them; she couldn't quite catch her breath. She thought again of being struck by lightning, and now she felt as though something had caught fire in her, and also a little dizzy and light, like she was falling from a great height.

And if she was not mistaking the soft curve of Lalwen's smile as she turned back from the window, the princess would be there to catch her.


End file.
